


Take One Tablet Daily

by yellowbessie



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowbessie/pseuds/yellowbessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take one tablet daily</p><p>That's what the prescription read, when he had one. But, prescriptions require visiting a doctor. And a chemist. Hardy isn't about to do either in Broadchurch...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take One Tablet Daily

_Take one tablet daily_

That's what the prescription read, when he had one. But, prescriptions require visiting a doctor. And a chemist. Hardy isn't about to do either in Broadchurch (he'd be put on medical leave, unable to work the case). So, he periodically drives all the way out to Dr. Baxter's office to, ehm, politely ask (really, beg) for more of the little white pills that are keeping him alive.

He can't afford to follow the directions, now. One pill a day seems wasteful when they're so hard to come by. Instead, whenever he feels the familiar symptoms come on, he takes a double dose and hopes that the medication works in time. It's dangerous, he knows. He's skating on thin ice. But he's been okay so far.

After a not entirely unpleasant dinner at the Miller's, Hardy arrives back at the Traders. His hosts had insisted he join them in a second (no, third?) glass of wine. And he'd insisted on walking back across the field. At the time, it seemed a good way to clear his head. But his vision blurs as he inserts the key, and he knows he overdid it. He can't catch his breath. His heart's pounding way too fast.

Frantically patting his jacket pockets, he realizes he'd already used up all the pills he'd been carrying. Not bothering to close the door, he stumbles into his room, heading immediately for the medicine cabinet. His shoulder slams into the doorway on the way into the bathroom, and he leans heavily on the sink for support. His hand clumsily paws through the shelves, knocking toothpaste and unused razors into the sink. His momentary relief at finding the plastic and foil package is dashed when he realizes - it's empty.

Shit! He was supposed to get more - even left a note on the nightstand - but kept putting off the long drive because he'd had too many leads to follow. (Damned seaside town, with all its bloody secrets!)

The room keeps swaying, and the ringing in his head is getting louder. Even holding onto the sink, like he is, it's a challenge to stay upright. Suddenly, his head is supported, cheek leaning against a cool, smooth surface. The wall? Floor? His eyes close. "It doesn't matter anymore," he thinks as he drifts into unconsciousness.


End file.
